


The Glory Disappears

by orphan_account



Series: The King and his Prince [5]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Fantasizing, Feelings Realization, Heavy Angst, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 09:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10241432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Steph recognizes the difference between reality and illusion.





	

Steph has a new basketball court he likes visiting. It’s not the same as the last. That one was never the same. This wasn't much more than around ten feet of black top tucked in between two apartment complexes, with a battered and weather-worn backboard with a net consisting of a few rusting chains dangling from the hoop.

 

He was reasonably certain he was the only person who ever played on it, considering the apartments nearby were for retired elderly people. It was perfect for him. He needed peace and quiet and a place where he could practice shooting until his muscles burned and forced him to stop. He could finally work his way through the turmoil, maybe.

 

He retreats to this court as summer comes to an end and frequent practices would soon be returning. Steph hadn’t spoken to LeBron since the ESPY’s and the immediate storm of emotions that usually followed radio silence between the two was dormant. Now there’s only him and the incontrovertible facts that the Warriors had lost to the Cavaliers in the finals and his team’s reign had come to an end, right along with their chance at a repeat.

 

Standing at the three-point line, Steph makes basket after basket, falling into the mindless repetition of his shooting drills He doesn’t try to fool himself that he was at all satisfied with that outcome, even if he considered the following events with LeBron. If anything, it made things worse. The king was once again the ruler of the land, and it was just fucking awful. And from Steph’s purely objective perspective, it was pretty hard for the rest of them too.

 

That’s what happens when you go up a city so hungry for a championship. No. But wasn't entirely fair; Steph had to start being honest with himself. He grimaces as the ball rebounds off the hoop and catches it. There was complaining about how hard life was facing off against one of, if not, the best player in the last ten years and then there were the facts that he had let the relationship between the two of them evolve far past rival players.

 

Steph launches his basketball at the hoop; as it swishes through the rusty net easily, he faces up to that conclusion and accepts it. He’s fucked. "Well, damn," He says out loud, over the sound of the basketball hitting the blacktop and bouncing into the corner where the back wall of the alley butted up against one of the looming apartment buildings.

 

He turns and walked away swiftly, leaving the ball where it rolled across the black top and closes his ears to the torrent of torture from his mind that followed him out of the alley.

 

* * *

 

  
Steph’s life would be easier if he were better if he didn’t let things eat at him. After spending another month shutting out all thoughts of the Akron native, his own psyche isn’t motivated enough to keep up the twisted ignorance, and he’s not a good enough actor to fool his own conception of reality.

 

It would help if he could convince himself that he didn’t want to know what LeBron was doing right now, what he was thinking about, or whether or not he even meant something to him. He could tell himself the lukewarm response in his blood to girls at clubs throwing themselves at him was from too much exposure, too much attention. The girls were just too boring, too routine; this is why he never went home with any of them.

 

It would hardly be pleasant for any man after a while, certainly, but it would be something; it would give him mentally if not physical satisfaction that he is wanted, not broken, and certainly cable of interest outside the king. But it’s not the answer; it’s not overexposure that has broken him, at least not in that way. It’s something else; some dark corner of his brain he hardly realized was there until a month after being away from LeBron after their extended period together.

 

His place doesn’t help. It’s too big, clean, and inviting. It doesn’t even feel like home. Steph has more trouble relaxing into the comfort of his space that he would into something more austere. Like a hotel room.

 

His bedroom is better: eye-catching expensive paintings, antique furniture, and a bed big enough to grant him the illusion of isolation, even though he knows his family is staying two rooms way. It’s a careful line to walk, chasing enough familiarity to let him sleep while dodging the edge of his true breakdown, keeping his home presentable to outsiders without making his inner-turmoil so obvious.

 

That’s enough of a challenge, in and of itself. Steph can pull it off if not well, can force a smile even when he’s sure his teammates are seeing through his facade, even when he feels like every fan he meets in public sees past his stiff smile and leaves with concerning thoughts. He can try and fool his own careful grip of reality, but late at night in the dark, well after practice, he knows perfectly well whose face it is he sees behind his eyelids.

 

Earlier this very day, he came face-to-face with the individual in question when he came upon a special edition magazine of the Cavs win. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t work past himself, and shamelessly purchased it in the self-checkout so no one saw the losing MVP buying a magazine with LeBron’s face on it. Steph knew it was a bad idea the moment he saw it sitting on the rack, was already regretting glancing as he read “LeBron James” printed across the cover under the endearingly smile of the man.

 

But it wasn’t the lure of the article that caught his eye; it was that smile, the drag of LeBron’s mouth up into a shy smile that holds his attention. It’s not even LeBron’s face, not really. Steph knows that, is aware that the features that made him buy it are more of a facade that he presents to the world. But his heart still beats harder, his breathing comes faster, and he can’t convince himself it is thoughts of competition and not heat in his veins no matter how hard he tries.

 

It’s Stockholm syndrome, he tells himself. It’s an unhealthy response to mental and emotional abuse from spending so long with LeBron. A bond he can’t break with someone who was only ever toying with him over the last year of their relationship. He should speak with someone, should work through his issues, and his unjust attachment and repressed feelings altogether.

 

Steph knows that would be the healthy thing to do, but he doesn’t, lets every day go by without picking up the phone, lets himself stalk LeBron on Instagram and heart accelerate every time he gets a text – it’s never him.

 

His chest collects into his throat, tight and painful until he doesn’t even realize he bought it. The magazine feels like evidence, like something he has to hide as soon as possible. The magazine promised ‘exclusive insight’ into LeBron and the Cavaliers win, all the trapping of the intimacy of the Warriors defeat Steph doesn’t need, not when he is reminded of their demise on a daily basis for hours at a time.

 

He retreats to his room each night alone to block out what he can’t handle to shut his eyes, and he intends to leave the magazine on the desk, to slide it face down to the back corner or hopefully toss into a trash can later, but it comes out face-up, and there’s that smile again, soft and inviting even in still-frame. LeBron has clearly been dressed up for the shoot. Steph knows what it is like, familiar with the early morning shoots and never-ending makeup.

 

Steph slides it off the desk, crosses the floor to his bed, and twists to drop over the sheets, to fall back across the mattress while he fumbles the magazine open to the cover story in the center. The pages ruffle, glossy sheets slipping over themselves, and then there’s another glimpse of LeBron’s face and his fingers catch and draw the magazine wider. It’s a half-page image, this time, interrupted by the text of an interview along with the bottom about the finals; Steph doesn’t even skim over the questions about beating the Warriors. He’s twisting the pages back instead, rolling them around the spine of the magazine so he can hold it up one-handed while he unfastens the front of his jeans with his other.

 

“Fuck, why,” He says, murmuring the words aloud as if they’ll have some kind of effect on the drag of his own hands on his clothes or on the way his fingers are shaky with the adrenaline of anticipation. His zipper comes open, the weight of his pants eases, and he pushes his fingers down against the tremor of tension in his stomach and he’s past the point of stopping even before his hand brushes against the half-hard shape of his cock inside his boxers.

 

Steph huffs out a breath and his fingers close around himself, and when he adds friction over his skin, he can feel the relief of it sweep out into his veins like a wave. He groans faint and low in the back of his throat and settles into the bed, bracing his arm out over him to hold the magazine while his other hand strokes up over the resistance of his hardening cock. It’s his fingers that tighten into a fist around his cock, but in his head, it’s LeBron’s hand.

 

The photo of LeBron is one of him in action on the court, which Steph is so used to seeing. It’s not the image that turns him on usually, but he can appreciate the aesthetics of it, can see the way white jersey brings out dark color of LeBron’s skin and the way the muscle in his arms pressed tight against the black sleeves. Steph’s breathing harder, his cock swelling under the rhythmic stroke of his hand, and he lets the magazine slide free of his hold.

 

“Oh, shit,” Steph blurts, and he rolls over, twisting onto his stomach without letting go of the grip he’s got around his cock. The magazine falls on the bed, and Steph rocks his weight back over his knees, braces himself on his free elbow as he speeds up his hand. His skin goes hot again, shudders through a wave of warmth, and then he curls his fingers under the promise of the page and turns to the next, and of course it’s what he knew it would be. The block.

 

  
The photo shows off the pure strength the other has, the defined muscles in his arms and legs, the flexing tension along his neck, and Steph can’t breathe, can’t drag his eyes away from the image. He wants to press his mouth to the edge of LeBron’s hip, wants to lick up his stomach; wants to see the shudder of breathing coming pleasure-fast in his chest, and wants to see the line of those shoulders gone slick and glistening with sweat. The ache in Steph’s chest collects into his throat, tight and painful until he can almost imagine he’s with LeBron again, instead of choking tears alone.

 

Steph is quickly coming as his vision hazed to white, jerking himself off through the electricity of heat that surges through him. His movement stutters, strokes falling out-of-rhythm as he comes, and he gasps for breath, tasting LeBron’s name at the back of his tongue like the unvoiced moan is demanding to be set free. His movement slows, the heat eases.

 

He blinks his vision back into focus and sees the picture of LeBron again, hissing through another jolt of sensation as the last aftershock of orgasm shakes down his spine to leave him spent and shaky with resolved tension. His hand is sticky, sheets a mess, and he pushes back up over his knees and takes stock of his pants, which are dirty too, damp from pressing too close to the wet of the sheets.

 

Steph sighs, lets himself go and gets up with shaky legs to clean his bed and his clothes as best he can before he lies down to sleep tonight.

 

He knows he should get rid of the magazine. It’s a source of temptation. He quickly grabs it on the bed and tosses it into the trash, grimacing at himself in disgust. Steph wants to keep lying to himself and look forward to the new season ahead of him, wants to work harder and faster to beat LeBron and the Cavaliers. But he can’t. He spread himself out, warm and heavy over the dirty sheets, lets the haze of his memories form into the present.

 

And when Steph closes his eyes and he can still imagine LeBron with him, his thoughts whisper, ”[You’re in love with him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KuPYehVDiDw),” and he knows it’s true. Illusions only work before one knows they’re there.

**Author's Note:**

> Shady's back. Back again.  
> Tell a friend.
> 
> We'll see for how long. Let's just say, things are not going my way, and I'm feeling pretty upset and accidentally took it out on this fic, filling it with angst.
> 
> Sorry.


End file.
